


A Hundred Heartbeats High

by ignaz



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 09:37:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12129648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignaz/pseuds/ignaz
Summary: It’s bad enough he has to listen to Victor and the piggy fucking in the next room, the walls at Yu-Topia Katsuki thin as they are, without the fact that the name Victor keeps moaning is his own damn name.





	A Hundred Heartbeats High

**Author's Note:**

> A belated contribution for NSFW Yurio Week, Day 5: Jealousy/Masturbation. I combined the prompts. Title is from “Pink Thing” by XTC, because why not.

It’s bad enough he has to listen to Victor and the piggy fucking in the next room, the walls at Yu-Topia Katsuki thin as they are, without the fact that the name Victor keeps moaning is his own damn name. 

“ _Yuuuri_ ,” Victor keeps saying, crooning it, adding more vowels than either of their names really has. “So good, Yuuri, so good—” 

Yuri Plisetsky lies flat on his back on his futon in his room at Yu-Topia, hands clenched at his sides, fuming. It is two in the morning local time, and he’s wide awake, and not because of jetlag. He can’t even close his eyes; it only makes the sounds louder and the pictures they suggest clearer. He’s got an active imagination and several gigabytes of porn on his computer back in St. Petersburg, and his brain is more than happy to supply visual aids to accompany the sex symphony coming from next door. 

“Ah, Yuuri,” he hears. “Please, _please—_ ” 

It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair. And yeah, it’s partly his own damn fault for taking the Katsukis up on their offer to let him stay in his old room. And for agreeing to do Victor’s stupid Hasetsu ice show in the first place. 

And for letting Victor get under his skin. 

And for letting Yuuri get under there, too. 

(And for losing his earplugs on the airplane.) 

He slams his fist on the futon and rolls over with a huff, away from the sounds, and folds his pillow over his head, covering both ears. He presses the pillow against the side of his head so hard it starts to hurt. It doesn’t make a difference. He can still hear everything. 

For instance, now he can hear the bed moving in the other room, a slow, rhythmic creak that sneaks through the goose down pillow and into his ears, into his brain, which draws him a vivid picture of Victor, naked and sweating and gorgeous, fucking Yuuri Katsuki’s lush, perfect ass. Or maybe they do it the other way around—maybe it’s Yuuri on top of Victor, pinning him to the mattress, Victor’s knees around Yuuri’s ears as Yuuri pounds into him. He doesn’t know their preferences. 

He does know what they look like naked. He knows what they look like flushed, wet, and totally bare. Whose bright fucking idea was it to invent onsens, anyway? People bathing together, naked—what sick fuck thought that up? Probably some sick fuck like Victor, who Yuri had seen naked dozens of times before they even came to Japan back in the spring, who was as comfortable nude as he was in anything, who wore his nudity like a Swarovski crystal-encrusted skating costume, like it was a gift he was bestowing on the world. 

Victor was the first guy Yuri had ever seen naked. It happened in the locker room at the rink, shortly after Yuri moved to St. Petersburg and started training there. Yuri had come out of his shower after practice, a towel around his waist, planning as usual to duck into one of the stalls to change, and there was Victor, just finishing stripping down after his own practice. 

Yuri had frozen where he stood, dripping water and staring at Victor—the greatest skater in Russia, maybe the greatest skater in history, and his own personal idol, though he’d die before admitting it—stark naked, pink with exertion. He’d taken in the broad shoulders, the defined pectorals, the muscled arms, the toned abdomen. Slim hips, firm ass, thick thighs. His dick, soft and darker than the rest of his pale skin, resting between his strong, perfect legs. 

Victor looked like he’d been carved from marble. He looked like everything Yuri had never even known he wanted. 

Victor had thrown a clean towel over one shoulder and only then seemed to notice Yuri staring. He’d flashed Yuri an abbreviated version of one of his fake-charming smiles before turning back to close his locker. He’d paused, and then turned back to Yuri again, looking him over more slowly. 

Yuri’s face flushed in an instant, and his grip on his towel tightened. 

This time, Victor gave him a different sort of smile. Genuine, and knowing. 

He winked. 

Then he strolled right past Yuri on his way to the showers, close enough for Yuri to smell the sweat and feel the heat coming from his naked body as he went by. 

Yuri would replay the scene, complete with the antiseptic and body odor stink of the locker room, in his head while he jerked off for months afterward. 

Then there was Yuuri Katsuki. The first time Yuri saw him skate, he’d been hooked—he’d never seen anybody move so beautifully on the ice. He’d gone online later and looked up every Katsuki routine he could find, going back years and years, digging through blurry low-resolution videos from junior competitions and local Japanese events he’d never heard of. He was enthralled, and turned on, and though they’d never once interacted, Yuuri Katsuki with the beautiful body and dancer’s grace quickly found a spot in Yuri’s masturbation rotation. 

He’d tried to banish both of them from his fantasies after the disaster that was Onsen on Ice, too humiliated by his loss to bear thinking of them at all except to think about how he was going to destroy them in the Grand Prix series. He’d even deleted from his phone the folder full of pictures of Katsuki in his underwear at last December’s GPF banquet—for a whole week, before reluctantly restoring them all. 

It had worked for a while. Sort of. But all of that is going to hell right now, in this little storage closet turned bedroom in Japan, where Yuri lies in the dark, listening to the two biggest crushes of his entire life fuck each other—loudly—in the room next door. 

“ _Yuuri_ , ah, Yuuri, _moya lyubov_ , you feel so good,” Victor croons, and Yuri flops onto his back again, giving up sleep as a lost cause. His heart is pounding and his dick is hard in his pajama pants, and he doesn’t know how much longer this is going to go on, but he does know one thing: this hard-on isn’t going away. 

He shoves his pajama pants halfway down his thighs. His cock springs free, lying flat on his stomach, burning hot. He doesn’t waste time, just wraps his hand around it and starts stroking himself, the way he does when he needs to get off quickly and get on with his life. When he can’t—or doesn’t want to—take his time and enjoy it. 

In the other room, Victor moans, the sound going straight to Yuri’s balls, and his hand slows, drawing out his pleasure. He lets his eyes slide shut and imagines what they could be doing in there, the two of them, so crazy about each other that nothing and no one else mattered. Was Yuuri fucking him? The way they’d acted in Moscow suggested Katsudon might be one in charge of that relationship. The way he’d pulled Victor’s tie, the way Victor had knelt to kiss his feet. Did Victor always kneel for him? Did he beg? Did he bend over for Yuuri, giving it up to him, pleading for his cock? Was that Yuuri driving those sounds from Victor’s body, that body that had won more gold than any skater in history? Holding him down, holding him by the hips, fucking him, making him cry out like that? 

The rhythmic shaking stops. Yuri holds his breath, his hand stilling on his cock. Have they finished? But then he hears it again, slower but still relentless, and realizes: they’ve only just started. 

“Ah, yes,” Yuri hears, and it’s Victor again—does he ever shut up?—and his hand starts moving on his cock again, the other cupping his balls, as he imagines them changing positions. Maybe it’s Victor fucking Yuuri now. Victor’s always been a bossy prick, he’d probably want to be in charge in bed, too. And Katsudon is such a meek, stammering, crying mess, he probably loves it when Victor takes control. Yuri pictures them: Yuuri on his hands and knees, Victor behind him, hips flush against his ass. Victor, holding Yuuri still with his strong arms, fucking into him with powerful thrusts, sinking into Yuuri’s tight heat. Yuuri, biting his lip to keep from making a sound, probably all too used to these thin walls, a lifetime of jerking off and keeping perfectly silent as he comes. Does he know that Yuri can hear them? Is he so distracted by Victor, by Victor’s thick, fat cock, that he forgets where he is, and that Yuri is so close? Or does he know damn well that Yuri can hear them? Does he get off on thinking about Yuri in the next room, listening to them fuck? 

“Yuuri,” Victor groans, and Yuri squeezes his dick as the fantasy transforms again—now it’s not Victor and Yuuri, Yuuri and Victor, but _Yuri_ and Yuuri and Victor. He’s in the room with them. He’s in the bed with them. Their hands are on him, touching him, spreading his thighs, stroking his cock. Victor, kissing him while Yuuri sucks him. Victor, squeezing around _Yuri’s_ cock, begging for it, while Yuuri licks into his open mouth. 

“Yuuri!” Victor cries. 

_Yuri_ , he hears. 

His eyes closed, hand moving faster, he pictures it: Yuuri holding Victor as Yuri fucks him, Victor’s legs wrapped around Yuri’s hips while he cries out for more, his face pink and twisted with pleasure. Yuri gives him more, pounding his tight ass while Yuuri’s hands move all over both of them. 

He pulls on his cock, sliding his foreskin over the sensitive head. It’s a good fantasy, a hot fantasy, but it’s not enough. Back in their bedroom, _their_ bedroom, Yuuri is behind him, hands moving down his back, cupping his ass while he fucks Victor. Yuuri’s fingers move lower, deeper, and then one of them is pressing slickly at Yuri’s hole, penetrating him while he penetrates Victor. 

Yuri pops one of his own fingers into his mouth and gets it good and wet before reaching down and lifting his legs up. The finger slides in easily. He’s done this countless times. 

In the fantasy, Yuuri adds a second finger, while the other hand reaches around Yuri’s torso and up, pinching a nipple. Yuri’s still fucking Victor, his thrusts slow and deep, careful not to dislodge Yuuri’s fingers from his ass. Yuuri just moves with him, pressed close against him, hot breath against Yuri’s neck. “ _Yuri_ ,” he whispers. 

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Victor moans. 

He’s sweating, here and in the fantasy, and breathing hard, and Victor is _so tight_ around him. Yuuri’s fingers inside him know exactly where to touch. Then Yuuri shifts behind him, and the fingers withdraw, and it’s Yuuri’s _cock_ pressing against his hole this time, the head almost too big for him to take, but then he takes it, and Yuuri is sliding into him like they were made for this. Like the three of them were made for each other. 

He shoves another finger in his ass, and it burns a little, but he doesn’t mind. His fist moves faster on his cock, in time with the rhythmic pounding coming from next door, and he’s writhing on the futon. 

Yuuri fucks his ass, stroking in and out of him, hitting Yuri’s sweet spot with every thrust. The motion propels Yuri forward, forcing his own cock deeper into Victor, who sobs out his name. _Yuri. Yuuri. Yuri._

“ _Ah!”_ There’s a wordless shout, followed by a creak, and then another. The room next door goes silent. 

Yuri curls his two fingers inside himself, tenses, and bites his lip through his orgasm. He comes silently, so hard that some of it hits his chin. It steals his breath away. 

From next door he hears low murmuring voices, quiet enough that he can’t pick out which is which. Of course they’re quiet _now_. 

He lets go of his dick, which is softening, and slowly slips his fingers out of his ass. He’s always sensitive after coming, and it’s worse tonight somehow. He can’t bear to touch himself. 

There’s a dirty sock on the floor near the futon, but it’s not too dirty, so he grabs it and uses the top part to clean himself up as best he can. He turns it inside out, wads it up into a ball, and chucks it across the little room. He’ll do laundry tomorrow. He’ll wake up earlier to get the first shower. 

He freezes, eyes wide, at the sound of a door opening—it’s Yuuri and Victor’s door, almost certainly, but what are they doing? Did they hear him somehow? His imagination is primed to run wild. He pictures his door opening next, one or both of them standing there, silhouetted in the dim light from the corridor. Maybe they’d say something, something sharp and disgusted. Maybe they’d just stare at him, judging him, pitying him. Maybe they’d laugh at him. Pathetic little Yuri, _Yurio_ , the lonely virgin with his hands shoved down his pants, jerking off to something he can never, ever have. 

He knows that’s crazy. They wouldn’t laugh at him. It’s taken him a while to realize it, but they’ve been kind to him. They don’t think of him as gross or pitiful. 

They don’t think of him at all. 

His door doesn’t open, and the soft sound of feet padding down the hall tells him that one of them has gone to the bathroom. Still, he doesn’t move and barely breathes until he hears the footfalls and the door closing, and the murmur picks up again. Of course. They’re cleaning up too, like him—probably together, lovingly wiping away the evidence of what they did. Twice the mess as Yuri. And half the shame. 

Fuck, how he hates them. 


End file.
